


slow dancing in the dark

by godsensei



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Lance (Voltron) Has Self-Esteem Issues, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining Lance (Voltron), Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-24
Updated: 2018-09-24
Packaged: 2019-07-16 09:41:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16083485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/godsensei/pseuds/godsensei
Summary: Lance loves Shiro, but Shiro would never feel that way about him, Lance is sure.





	slow dancing in the dark

**Author's Note:**

> i can't stop listening to 'slow dancing in the dark' by joji and so i wrote this shit. congration i done it

Lance has been here before, watching Shiro from across the room.

This happened at the Garrison, when Shiro was the star of the school and Lance had a twinkle in his eye, seeing his idol in the same room. It happened in the middle of a battle prepping situation in the Castle of Lions, when Shiro was barking out orders and Lance was ready to lay himself down should it come to that. It happened when they’d gotten back to Earth, Shiro leading Atlas, hero once again, Lance once again completely awed at his resilience.  It happened when they reclaimed Earth, and rebuilt and…

It’s happening now, Lance acknowledges with a wretched missed beat of his heart, Shiro laughing with Keith about something or another, his face completely relaxed and open.

He’s as beautiful as ever, eyes crinkling at the sides when he smiles, white hair coiffed perfectly. There are shadows on his face, his skin tinged deeply pink from the lighting of the club, slightly blue from the glow of his arm.

He looks happy.

Still, Shiro doesn’t know he exists– hadn’t then, doesn’t now. Sure, they still work together and talk like friends, but that’s not… that’s not how Lance sees him. That’s not how he wants Shiro to see him, to know him.

And he’s not saying that Shiro has to feel any one way about him, he would never, but… he can’t help but ache all over when he’s watching from afar and feeling so many things and Shiro has no idea he’s even _in the room_.

And Keith– there,  _always_  by his side. Lance knows he can’t compete– isn’t as broad-chested or courageous or mature or  _beautiful_. He laughs at inappropriate moments and makes a joke out of every situation, loves too easily, feels too deeply. He hasn’t known Shiro as long, wasn’t ever as impressive, didn’t save Shiro when he  _could’ve_.   
  
(He could’ve done  _so_  many things.)

Lance pours his soul into another concentrated shot, knocking back the contents and relishing the burn of it down his throat. His limbs are already a little heavy, but he needs it to keep him grounded or he might just leave his body, get lost in limbo and never come back.

Shiro laughs again when Keith says something, and Lance rubs at his chest, looks away.

Maybe he should go home, but he doesn’t want to be there any more than he wants to be here.

Instead, he orders another shot, and another, until he doesn’t know what time it is and the club is darkened to a deep red and there are only a handful of people loitering, swaying. Shiro disappeared from his field of vision a long time ago and he’s not thinking about it anyway. Well, he’s  _trying_  not to.

There’s a melancholy song playing, winding people down, and Lance closes his eyes, the room spinning as he sits still.

He’s _lonely._

There’s nothing for it.

He thought being back on Earth would help the slow-gnawing emptiness he felt in the vastness of space, but if anything, it’s left a vacuum that threatens to unravel him completely. He loves his family  _so_  much, but there are pieces that can only be filled by their shapes and he doesn’t want them hurting just because he can’t get over it.

If he could. He’s been trying for such a long time.

The song drags on into something soft and sad, and Lance opens his eyes to someone tapping on his shoulder.

He almost laughs.

“I think they’re about to close,” Shiro says to him, smiling that wry grin. “I didn’t see Hunk around. Do you have a ride?”

Considerate.

“I don’t wanna go home,” Lance slurs, and Shiro’s brows furrow, and he frowns. Lance is always making him  _frown_ , not like  _Keith_.

“How much have you had to drink?”

“I don’t ‘ppreciate your tone,” Lance says sardonically, standing, or trying to. Shiro catches him as he tips forward.

“I’m guessing a lot,” Shiro says, laughing slightly as Lance settles against him. He closes his eyes, resting there against Shiro’s chest for just a moment, breathing him in. Pressing his hands against Shiro’s shoulders, he pushes himself backwards, looking up at him. Shiro looks back down at him kindly.

Lance can’t stand looking at him.

“Let go ‘f me,” he says, pulling his arms away as quickly as a drunk person can. Shiro frowns further, and Lance makes a sad noise. “Stop  _frowning_.”

Shiro is silent for a moment, watching him carefully. “You’ve been doing this a lot. This isn’t like you, Lance. What’s wrong? You  _know_  you can talk to me.”  
  
Lance looks at his earnest expression– feels bad for taking it out on him, something he doesn’t even  _know_  about.

“Can you…?” Lance begins, trailing off when he looks over Shiro’s shoulder at Keith waiting at the door.

Lance stops, eyes going vacant.   
  
Of course.  _Considerate,_ nothing else.

“Can you leave me alone?” Lance asks, finally looking at Shiro, trying to keep the hurt from his voice, though it feels like it’s choking him, filling his airways, crushing his chest in it’s grip.

“Lance–”

“ _Please_ , Shiro,” Lance begs, turning away from him.

The music is the only thing he can fear for a few moments, and then–

“You know where to find me when you want to talk,” Shiro says, and then… he leaves him alone.

Lance waits until Shiro gets to the door before he lets himself look, meeting his eyes as Shiro looks back at him. He waits, like he wants Lance to change his mind.

Lance rubs at his chest, looks away. 

“We’re closing,” the bartender says.

“Mmyep,” Lance says, pushing away from the counter. He slips outside, walks slowly so he doesn’t fall, makes it all the way home with sore feet.

His empty house widens that hole inside, so he turns on some music, pulls out a bottle he’d gotten from Coran and dances in a slow circle in the dark.

 

 


End file.
